HE LEAVES LONDON—CHARACTERS IN A STAGE-COACH.
THE company in the stage-coach consisted of a grocer and his wife, who
were going to pay a visit to some of their country friends; a young
officer, who took this way of marching to quarters; a middle-aged
gentlewoman, who had been hired as housekeeper to some family in the
country; and an elderly, well-looking man, with a remarkable
old-fashioned periwig.
Harley, upon entering, discovered but one vacant seat, next the grocer’s
wife, which, from his natural shyness of temper, he made no scruple to
occupy, however aware that riding backwards always disagreed with him.
Though his inclination to physiognomy had met with some rubs in the
metropolis, he had not yet lost his attachment to that science. He set
himself, therefore, to examine, as usual, the countenances of his
companions. Here, indeed, he was not long in doubt as to the preference;
for besides that the elderly gentleman, who sat opposite to him, had
features by nature more expressive of good dispositions, there was
something in that periwig we mentioned, peculiarly attractive of Harley’s
regard.
He had not been long employed in these speculations, when he found
himself attacked with that faintish sickness, which was the natural
consequence of his situation in the coach. The paleness of his
countenance was first observed by the housekeeper, who immediately made
offer of her smelling bottle, which Harley, however, declined, telling at
the same time the cause of his uneasiness. The gentleman, on the
opposite side of the coach, now first turned his eye from the side
direction in which it had been fixed, and begged Harley to exchange
places with him, expressing his regret that he had not made the proposal
before. Harley thanked him, and, upon being assured that both seats were
alike to him, was about to accept of his offer, when the young gentleman
of the sword, putting on an arch look, laid hold of the other’s arm.
“So, my old boy,” said he, “I find you have still some youthful blood
about you, but, with your leave, I will do myself the honour of sitting
by this lady;” and took his place accordingly. The grocer stared him as
full in the face as his own short neck would allow, and his wife, who was
a little, round-faced woman, with a great deal of colour in her cheeks,
drew up at the compliment that was paid her, looking first at the
officer, and then at the housekeeper.
This incident was productive of some discourse; for before, though there
was sometimes a cough or a hem from the grocer, and the officer now and
then humm’d a few notes of a song, there had not a single word passed the
lips of any of the company.
Mrs. Grocer observed, how ill-convenient it was for people, who could not
be drove backwards, to travel in a stage. This brought on a dissertation
on stage-coaches in general, and the pleasure of keeping a chay of one’s
own; which led to another, on the great riches of Mr. Deputy Bearskin,
who, according to her, had once been of that industrious order of youths
who sweep the crossings of the streets for the conveniency of passengers,
but, by various fortunate accidents, had now acquired an immense fortune,
and kept his coach and a dozen livery servants. All this afforded ample
fund for conversation, if conversation it might be called, that was
carried on solely by the before-mentioned lady, nobody offering to
interrupt her, except that the officer sometimes signified his
approbation by a variety of oaths, a sort of phraseology in which he
seemed extremely versant. She appealed indeed, frequently, to her
husband for the authenticity of certain facts, of which the good man as
often protested his total ignorance; but as he was always called fool, or
something very like it, for his pains, he at last contrived to support
the credit of his wife without prejudice to his conscience, and signified
his assent by a noise not unlike the grunting of that animal which in
shape and fatness he somewhat resembled.
The housekeeper, and the old gentleman who sat next to Harley, were now
observed to be fast asleep, at which the lady, who had been at such pains
to entertain them, muttered some words of displeasure, and, upon the
officer’s whispering to smoke the old put, both she and her husband
purs’d up their mouths into a contemptuous smile. Harley looked sternly
on the grocer. “You are come, sir,” said he, “to those years when you
might have learned some reverence for age. As for this young man, who
has so lately escaped from the nursery, he may be allowed to divert
himself.” “Dam’me, sir!” said the officer, “do you call me young?”
striking up the front of his hat, and stretching forward on his seat,
till his face almost touched Harley’s. It is probable, however, that he
discovered something there which tended to pacify him, for, on the ladies
entreating them not to quarrel, he very soon resumed his posture and
calmness together, and was rather less profuse of his oaths during the
rest of the journey.
It is possible the old gentleman had waked time enough to hear the last
part of this discourse; at least (whether from that cause, or that he too
was a physiognomist) he wore a look remarkably complacent to Harley, who,
on his part, shewed a particular observance of him. Indeed, they had
soon a better opportunity of making their acquaintance, as the coach
arrived that night at the town where the officer’s regiment lay, and the
places of destination of their other fellow-travellers, it seems, were at
no great distance, for, next morning, the old gentleman and Harley were
the only passengers remaining.
When they left the inn in the morning, Harley, pulling out a little
pocket-book, began to examine the contents, and make some corrections
with a pencil. “This,” said he, turning to his companion, “is an
amusement with which I sometimes pass idle hours at an inn. These are
quotations from those humble poets, who trust their fame to the brittle
tenure of windows and drinking-glasses.” “From our inn,” returned the
gentleman, “a stranger might imagine that we were a nation of poets;
machines, at least, containing poetry, which the motion of a journey
emptied of their contents. Is it from the vanity of being thought
geniuses, or a mere mechanical imitation of the custom of others, that we
are tempted to scrawl rhyme upon such places?”
“Whether vanity is the cause of our becoming rhymesters or not,” answered
Harley, “it is a pretty certain effect of it. An old man of my
acquaintance, who deals in apothegms, used to say that he had known few
men without envy, few wits without ill-nature, and no poet without
vanity; and I believe his remark is a pretty just one. Vanity has been
immemorially the charter of poets. In this, the ancients were more
honest than we are. The old poets frequently make boastful predictions
of the immortality their works shall acquire them; ours, in their
dedications and prefatory discourses, employ much eloquence to praise
their patrons, and much seeming modesty to condemn themselves, or at
least to apologise for their productions to the world. But this, in my
opinion, is the more assuming manner of the two; for of all the garbs I
ever saw Pride put on, that of her humility is to me the most
disgusting.”
“It is natural enough for a poet to be vain,” said the stranger. “The
little worlds which he raises, the inspiration which he claims, may
easily be productive of self-importance; though that inspiration is
fabulous, it brings on egotism, which is always the parent of vanity.”
“It may be supposed,” answered Harley, “that inspiration of old was an
article of religious faith; in modern times it may be translated a
propensity to compose; and I believe it is not always most readily found
where the poets have fixed its residence, amidst groves and plains, and
the scenes of pastoral retirement. The mind may be there unbent from the
cares of the world, but it will frequently, at the same time, be unnerved
from any great exertion. It will feel imperfect, and wander without
effort over the regions of reflection.”
“There is at least,” said the stranger, “one advantage in the poetical
inclination, that it is an incentive to philanthropy. There is a certain
poetic ground, on which a man cannot tread without feelings that enlarge
the heart: the causes of human depravity vanish before the romantic
enthusiasm he professes, and many who are not able to reach the
Parnassian heights, may yet approach so near as to be bettered by the air
of the climate.”
“I have always thought so,” replied Harley; “but this is an argument with
the prudent against it: they urge the danger of unfitness for the world.”
“I allow it,” returned the other; “but I believe it is not always
rightfully imputed to the bent for poetry: that is only one effect of the
common cause.—Jack, says his father, is indeed no scholar; nor could all
the drubbings from his master ever bring him one step forward in his
accidence or syntax: but I intend him for a merchant.—Allow the same
indulgence to Tom.—Tom reads Virgil and Horace when he should be casting
accounts; and but t’other day he pawned his great-coat for an edition of
Shakespeare.—But Tom would have been as he is, though Virgil and Horace
had never been born, though Shakespeare had died a link-boy; for his
nurse will tell you, that when he was a child, he broke his rattle, to
discover what it was that sounded within it; and burnt the sticks of his
go-cart, because he liked to see the sparkling of timber in the
fire.—’Tis a sad case; but what is to be done?—Why, Jack shall make a
fortune, dine on venison, and drink claret.—Ay, but Tom—Tom shall dine
with his brother, when his pride will let him; at other times, he shall
bless God over a half-pint of ale and a Welsh-rabbit; and both shall go
to heaven as they may.—That’s a poor prospect for Tom, says the
father.—To go to heaven! I cannot agree with him.”
“Perhaps,” said Harley, “we now-a-days discourage the romantic turn a
little too much. Our boys are prudent too soon. Mistake me not, I do
not mean to blame them for want of levity or dissipation; but their
pleasures are those of hackneyed vice, blunted to every finer emotion by
the repetition of debauch; and their desire of pleasure is warped to the
desire of wealth, as the means of procuring it. The immense riches
acquired by individuals have erected a standard of ambition, destructive
of private morals, and of public virtue. The weaknesses of vice are left
us; but the most allowable of our failings we are taught to despise.
Love, the passion most natural to the sensibility of youth, has lost the
plaintive dignity he once possessed, for the unmeaning simper of a
dangling coxcomb; and the only serious concern, that of a dowry, is
settled, even amongst the beardless leaders of the dancing-school. The
Frivolous and the Interested (might a satirist say) are the
characteristical features of the age; they are visible even in the essays
of our philosophers. They laugh at the pedantry of our fathers, who
complained of the times in which they lived; they are at pains to
persuade us how much those were deceived; they pride themselves in
defending things as they find them, and in exploding the barren sounds
which had been reared into motives for action. To this their style is
suited; and the manly tone of reason is exchanged for perpetual efforts
at sneer and ridicule. This I hold to be an alarming crisis in the
corruption of a state; when not only is virtue declined, and vice
prevailing, but when the praises of virtue are forgotten, and the infamy
of vice unfelt.”
They soon after arrived at the next inn upon the route of the
stage-coach, when the stranger told Harley, that his brother’s house, to
which he was returning, lay at no great distance, and he must therefore
unwillingly bid him adieu.
“I should like,” said Harley, taking his hand, “to have some word to
remember so much seeming worth by: my name is Harley.”
“I shall remember it,” answered the old gentleman, “in my prayers; mine
is Silton.”
And Silton indeed it was! Ben Silton himself! Once more, my honoured
friend, farewell!—Born to be happy without the world, to that peaceful
happiness which the world has not to bestow! Envy never scowled on thy
life, nor hatred smiled on thy grave.